Twenty-One. It's like I'm finally a legal immigrant.

Birthdays. Illegal immigration. Okay, go with me on this. I'm about to blow your mind with this anology.

So twenty. We've all been there (or most of us have - sorry to any of you youngins out there)... but really any age under 21. You wanna go out, you want to go to the bars have fun with your friends or maybe just have some drinks in a basement somewhere. Whatever. The law says you can't. Bummer.

So you sneak alcohol into your purse. You party when your parents aren't home. You carry false identification to get into the clubs. Sure you might be breaking the rules, but you're bringing something to the party. You're bringing your energy, your jokes, your dance moves, your drinking abilities, your all around sluttiness - whatever it may be, you're making the party a better place just for being there (whether you're supposed to not).

So isn't illegal immigration kinda like being underage? But like, forever? Forced to sneak across the border, avoid the police and take on false identities... sure, maybe you're not technically supposed to be at the Party in the USA, but you're bringing forth your talents, work ethic and traditions to make the county a more happening place. I say party on.

Except no one wants to be 20 years old forever. And no one like getting ID'd by cops in bars (Como). So back off Arizona. You're really a buzz kill.